Transformation of the Heart

My dogs have a way of humbling me. As part of my “day job” I frequently take one of my boys to the administrative building and speak to new employees during orientation about the work we do. Seasoned employees are also required to attend every few years as a way to keep them informed about changes that may have occurred without their knowledge. Only twenty or so employees attend these presentations, and the room is relatively small. I typically close the door and allow the therapy dog to informally greet audience members as I talk, once I am assured that everyone would enjoy an up-close greeting. I normally take Rocky on such excursions since he has a reputation as a charmer, and has an uncanny gift of working the crowd. He somehow knows who he has visited and who has not yet been graced by his presence, skillfully backtracking to ensure all have ample opportunity to gaze into his beautiful eyes and stroke his soft fur. However, on this particular day, I decided to bring Jasper instead in an effort to expose him to different settings and tasks.

Jasper did an excellent job meeting and greeting employees on our way through the office corridors, and eagerly demonstrated his skill by balancing a bone on his nose before effortlessly catching it and savoring each crumb, all to the delight of onlookers. Once in the conference room, I began my presentation; educating attendees about the values of animal-assisted activities/therapy, all the while stressing the amount of time and effort the therapy dogs require in order to ensure that dogs and people are safe and the dogs remain well behaved. It was then—right when I was speaking about his impeccable manners and solid obedience skills—that I spied Jasper with his front paws on the shoulders of his dear friend, Donna, who was crouched on the floor enjoying doggie kisses on her checks and ear lobes. Unfortunately, this was one of those occasions during which my words continued to tumble out of my mouth despite my sudden realization that Jasper was well-intentionally violating several therapy dog rules in his effort to ensure that Donna received all the snuggle time she desired. Needless to say, I was unable to stop mid-sentence. I directed everyone’s attention toward Jasper’s obedience/qualification patches, carefully sewn onto his vest. The only problem was that the dog who was at that moment wearing the vest was not living up to what the patches represented. This was clearly not one of those Kodak moments from the front of a therapy dog brochure. Although both Donna and Jasper were thoroughly enjoying each other’s company, this was not the example of appropriate therapy dog behavior that I was looking for. As the room erupted into laughter and I gently reminded my canine partner to keep all four paws on the ground unless performing a requested trick, I was reminded that it is often the “human” side of our dogs that truly endear them to those they visit.

When I was a child, I had a wonderful toy poodle named J.J. (her actual name was Poodle Town’s Black Jade Princess, but that was far too complex for a two-year-old, so J.J. it was). She was an outdoor dog, and I spent countless hours in our California backyard enjoying each minute with her. I really can’t remember any problems we ever had with J.J. She was the perfect dog for a child; she allowed me to dress her up in doll clothes and push her down the street in my doll carriage. I used to marvel how this little dog could be so perfect when we never once took her to an obedience class or took the time to socialize her appropriately. I now realize that, while I truly enjoyed my little friend, her perfection led me to take her for granted in many ways.

Lassie was my favorite childhood hero, most likely paving the way for a lifelong love of rough coat collies. I dreamed of having such a regal and perfect dog as a companion. This desire to have the perfect dog continued as I watched therapy dogs flawlessly perfect each task, ignoring temptations with apparent ease. I heard countless stories about dogs who were perfect from the start and took to therapy work as though it was what they had been born to do. So many handlers described an effortless process on their path to working in partnership together. When I got Rocky and then later Jasper, I was initially disappointed to discover that my canine friends did not have this natural ability from the start. My quest for the perfect dog eluded me. I then decided that my destiny lay on the path of hard work, so I began the journey to patiently and tirelessly help them past their imperfections toward the path of success. It was somewhere down this difficult and challenging road that I began to realize the real work that needed to be done was in me.

One of my favorite parts of my day job is teaching inexperienced therapists how to truly hear and respect clients and, ultimately, how to skillfully ask purposeful questions that invite and guide lasting change. It is commonplace for these new therapists to slowly build self-confidence, only to later become disillusioned when they encounter a client with whom their skills seemed to utterly fail. While the therapists’ initial response is frequently to blame some aspect of the client (“He doesn’t want to change,” “He’s inappropriate for treatment,” and the like), it is at this point in their professional development that they have the greatest opportunity for growth. At such times, I explain that there are two general classifications of clients: easy clients (those who are very forgiving of therapist’s blunders and lack of purpose and make changes despite these factors) and difficult clients (those who unwittingly expose every therapist mistake and therapeutic guess and force the therapists to sharpen their skills and be more purposeful and precise). I often tell therapists that I am glad when they are working with one of these “difficult clients,” for it is those who truly challenge one’s skills that force us to choose—blame the client or to hone our skills.

In working with my two imperfect dogs, I am forced to be much more aware than I would otherwise have to be. Rocky is painfully tuned into my moods, so he quickly shows discomfort when I become frustrated and impatient. He is a barometer of my mood and an ever-present reminder of personal aspects that I would be wise to improve. Jasper is incredibly mindful of my body position, and instinctively takes his cues from how I move rather than from what I say. In doing so, he forces me to take responsibility for those moments when I am not congruent. In addition, the dogs’ quirks and oddities force me to carefully screen the environment and be mindful of their interpretations and signals. They are in many ways high maintenance. While these things used to frustrate me, I have come to value the lessons they have brought to my life. I now realize that because of my partners’ quirks I have become a far better handler and human being than I most likely would have been had I been working with less sensitive and more easy-going canine partners.

As I reflect upon my favorite childhood dog, I realize that, while the story of Lassie was heartwarming and entertaining, this was not a book in which Timmy walked away with any lasting revelations or personal self-improvement. A perfect dog does not inspire such self-reflection. On the other hand, stories about dogs with issues or behavioral problems, such as Jon Katz’s (2003, 2006) Orson or John Grogan’s (2005) Marley, are not only entertaining but are riddled with self-reflections and realizations that can only conclude with a wiser human being, leaving both human and dog better because of the other. For it is in being in relationship with such an imperfect dog that one has to choose—blame or even get rid of the dog (or one’s dreams), or to learn to be a better human being. This is the gift of the imperfect dog.